"Am I not robbing you?" inquires Hamersley, as he casts a significant
glance over the wide, sterile plain.

"No, no! I am not in need, besides I have no great way to go to where I
can get a fresh supply. Drink, senor, drink it all."

In ten seconds after the calabash is empty.

"Now eat the tortillas. 'Tis but poor fare, but the _chili vinagre_
will be sure to strengthen you. We who dwell in the desert know that."

Her words proved true, for after swallowing a few morsels of the bread
she has besprinkled, the famished man feels as if some restorative
medicine had been administered to him.

"Do you think you are able to ride?" she asks.

"I can walk--though, perhaps, not very far."

"If you can ride there is no need for your walking. You can mount my
mare; I shall go afoot. It is not very far--only six miles."

"But," protests he, "I must not leave this spot."

"Indeed!" she exclaims, turning upon her _protege_ a look of surprise.
"For what reason, senor? To stay here would be to perish. You have no
companions to care for you?"

"I have companions--at least, one. That is why I must remain. Whether
he may return to assist me I know not. He has gone off in search of
water. In any case, he will be certain to seek for me."

"But why should you stay for him?"

"Need you ask, senorita? He is my comrade, true and faithful. He has
been the sharer of my dangers--of late no common ones. If he were to
come back and find me gone--"

"What need that signify, caballero? He will know where to come after
you."

"How should he know?"

"Oh, that will be easy enough. Leave it to me. Are you sure he will
find his way back to this place?"

"Quite sure. This tree will guide him. He arranged it so before
leaving."

"In that case, there's not any reason for your remaining. On the
contrary. I can see that you need a better bed than sleeping among
these sage-plants. I know one who will give it. Come with me,
caballero? By the time your comrade can get back there'll be one here
to meet him. Lest he should arrive before the messenger I shall send,
this will save him from going astray."

While speaking she draws forth a small slip of paper from a pouch
carried _a la chatelaine_; along with it a pencil. She is about to
write, when a thought restrains her.

"Does your comrade understand Spanish?" she asks.

"Only a word or two. He speaks English, or, as we call it, American."

"Can he read?"

"